


What He Needs

by theparadox



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, ends in angst and comfort sort of because you gotta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadox/pseuds/theparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aristide puts on quite the act at seeming perfectly demure and submissive. Dorian knows the truth of this blatant lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Aristide le Tellier is my canon-divergent Orlesian elf Inquisitor. Once Dalish, enslaved to Orlesian nobility as their ward, Aristide is a fancy aristocratic elf.
> 
> Trigger warning: Mention of non-con. As a slave, he was forced to perform sexual acts.

Aristide may look rather harmless. It’s the demure posture and gentle smile, soft golden curls and skin as pale as marble. He has been trained to look harmless. No threats here. And yet. Dorian knows otherwise. Dorian knows that when the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers shut, Aristide is in charge. Oh, he may playfully protest. Sometimes. Only if Aristide allows him – which he usually does, as Dorian is particularly adorable when he’s contrarian. And they both know where they will end up.

With Dorian on his knees on the bed, his hands gripping the ornate Orlesian headpiece, his legs spread and his head rested against his bicep. With Aristide’s delicate, extremely precise fingers inside of him. There is nothing reckless about his attention. Every movement Aristide makes is an art. He knows exactly where to touch and how to touch it in order to achieve the best results. There is no moment to breathe – only intensity. Because that is who Dorian’s little elf is. Unexpected intensity.

When Aristide decides Dorian has not moaned enough, he will solve the problem. He knows exactly how to touch in order to move him closer toward that blessed end, and how to keep his progression at a halt. When Dorian fidgets, because _for the love of absolutely anything holy, do it already,_ Aristide can keep him behaved. He can keep him calm, keep his smart mouth silent.

Only when the Inquisitor has decided Dorian has had enough will he proceed with two options. One, he will readjust himself for better leverage and plunge his fingers rapidly inside and out, the thrusts moving in perfect rhythm with the opposite hand, grasped elsewhere. His hands can feel the waves of Dorian’s body, knows exactly when to go slower or faster in order to follow its rhythm, the best way to coax the glorious finish from his body and milk it for all its worth, continuing until the very last tremors have finished. Or two, when they simply wish to be together, when Dorian is tired of staring at the Orlesian detail of the headboard, Aristide may turn the magister onto his back, reclined luxuriously into the cushions. The elf prefers not to take him with his back turned. It is uncomfortable – to see the back of a head, rather than those beautiful, expressive eyes. After a sufficient amount of kissing to get Dorian nicely relaxed and impatient once more, Aristide will personally fill him, their lips still hovering together. He will remain to taste each moan, each breath. Aristide is a very accommodating lover, yet so very commanding. He will whisper Orlesian into his ear with each thrust; the implications of the association with the language will be interesting the next time they return to Val Royeaux. With what little amount of Orlesian Dorian knows, he will be able to make out, ‘ _not until we are together_ ,’ which will cause him to equally whine and whimper. He will not have the luxury of completion on his own time, but they will be together. Always together. And Dorian almost misses his own release, distracted by the look of absolute bliss upon his caged bird’s face, freed in the act that brings them the closest together.

When they finish, they can scarcely stop kissing. Aristide will slide beside him on the bed, and this is the time for Dorian to cover him instead. To cradle his face and kiss it all over, to adore him. Aristide performed a service, so he may say, and it is Dorian’s duty to argue otherwise. To tell him no, it was not a performance. It was love. It was affection. And gradually, if Dorian says it enough, and kisses him enough, and holds him tightly enough, Aristide may listen. And his hands will gently curl around Dorian’s arm, lightly, as though to comfort. But if Dorian looks, he can see the fingers rigid in their lightness, restrained, shaking, trying not to cling down. Trying not to attach himself.

But Dorian will beat him to it. He will grasp him with all his strength. Because he knows Aristide will have trouble doing so himself. And one of them needs to.


End file.
